


until we are lighter

by doppler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:35:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13860750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doppler/pseuds/doppler
Summary: Jordan is a good, responsible person with a well established moral compass, who won’t, under any circumstance, sleep with a 20 year old rookie.Jordan is also, apparently, a filthy fucking liar.





	until we are lighter

**Author's Note:**

> Happy aniversary, C. Un seul être vous manque et tout est dépeuplé. I'm glad you are no longer missing.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to every single one of you that helped me out with this fic. Title borrowed from Rae Armantrout.

There’s something about the way Mathew Barzal stares at him that makes Jordan’s spine feel like it’s catching on fire.

It’s kind of a problem.

Here’s the thing: Jordan is used to spending a large part of his life between locker rooms and various states of undress. He’s been playing hockey for a long time– getting naked surrounded by men is not a big deal. Changing out of his gear at a snail’s pace after a grueling home game loss to the team that _traded_ him shouldn’t bother him.

But the way Mat stares at him when he thinks he’s not aware—it’s unnerving.

Maybe because it’s too close to the way he once looked at Taylor, what feels like so long ago, when they were young and reckless, filled with dreams and love for a city that quickly crushed those under the weight of expectations, when they got a little bit too close, always, but never close enough.

(Maybe because it’s how Taylor looked back at him, once.)

It’s an even bigger problem because Mat is quite the opposite from hard on the eyes. There’s just something about him that pulls Jordan in like a magnet, from the way he carries himself to the way his hair presses against his forehead when he’s sweaty but happy after practice, smiling blindingly and joking around with Tito or whoever is near enough to enter his magnetic field.

Jordan is not exactly immune.

“We’ll get them next time, eh?” John says, patting Jordan firmly on the back, effectively shaking him out of his reverie, quickly tucking this particular line of thought to the back of his mind. He offers the captain one small smile, says something generic about skating harder or _whatever_ , something the media would eat up but he’s sure John can see right through. It takes a few moments to finish removing his equipment and walk to the showers, looking firmly straight forward, acting like he can’t see Mat trying to be casual about the way his eyes are zeroed on the dip of Jordan’s back.

There is no _fucking_ way.

Jordan is a good, responsible person with a well established moral compass, who won’t, under any circumstance, sleep with a 20 year old rookie.

 

* * *

 

Jordan is also, apparently, a filthy fucking liar.

 

* * *

 

If he’s being honest, Jordan is not always the brightest person with the most healthy habits. It’s nothing particularly _bad_ , it’s just that sometimes, when the way he played in a game, or the result of it makes his skin itch, he’ll go to whatever hotel bar (or to the cabinet where he stores alcohol), order one single whiskey on the rocks, and sit there for around an hour, tearing himself apart limb by limb, and then, once the hour is gone, picking himself up piece by piece and move forward.

You know, he’s pretty sure this is not that terrible. He could be doing worse things, like—

 _Jerking off to Mathew Barzal’s ass_ , his unhelpful and frankly annoying brain supplies. _Looking for Mat’s room and begging him to scratch your itch off._

He takes one sip, and resists the urge to lay his head down in the counter.

Okay, so, objectively, Jordan is not the brightest and healthiest person, period. And maybe he has some sort of condition that makes him predisposed for disasters happening in his life. Attracts them like a magnet. Maybe he walked under one too many ladders.

Which is why he’s sitting on some fucking hotel bar in Tampa, right in the middle of feeling sorry for himself, when trouble in the form of a 6’0 hockey player shows up in the room and beelines straight for him.

“ _There_ you are!” Mat starts, a mischievous smile on his lips. “John told me you’d probably be here,” he finishes, gesturing to the pretty empty establishment.

“Yeah I’m here just, you know, having one drink before going in for the night,” Jordan raises the glass on his right hand. Mat just lifts one judging eyebrow, that makes Jordan grimace as he scratches the back of his neck with his free hand.

_Well, so much for some self deprecating alone time._

Besides, it’s not like Mat has time to hear the story about Canada’s hero falling from grace and ending up traded through the backdoor, separated from Hallsy and Nuge, the boys he was _supposed_ to win a Cup with. It’s not like he wants to bring any semblance of a shadow over the frankly spectacular season the rookie _(his_ rookie _)_ is having.

“Something you usually do?” Mat asks, leaning against the bar, eyes boring into Jordan’s own with fierce intensity and some kind of _determination_ that makes Jordan’s palms clammy.

“Rarely, actually,” Jordan replies, polishing off the rest of his glass with little finesse, uncaring for the way the whiskey aches as it goes down, actually relishing it a little. Hoping it somehow clears his mind from the fact that Mat’s warm hand is laying on top of his arm.

“Well, that’s good, actually. Since I can’t _drink_ here,” Mat says, his hand barely _caressing_ Jordan’s arm. It makes Jordan want to bang his head against the counter, to scream bloody fucking murder and have someone keep Mat at bay, far away from him with his hair tied back into a ponytail, looking all kinds of soft.

“Why were you looking for me, then?” Jordan asks, and Mat seems impossibly tall once he straightens up and faces Jordan directly, looking at him from under his eyelashes. He seems unaware of the fact that Jordan is one second away from exploding into little pieces, and continues talking. It’s probably for the best.

“I was bored, thought you’d want to have fun,” he suggests, completely innocent, except by the fact that Jordan can see right through him, can see the naked want.

 _Maybe if he doesn’t let Mat know just how much he knows and wants what’s going on, he’ll relent_ , Jordan thinks, a little hopelessly.

“I’m actually pretty sleepy, man,” Jordan replies, eyes landing everywhere except on Mat. He chuckles nervously once he gets up from the barstool, and then stumbles. Mat catches his elbow, and they end up standing pressed closer together than he expected.

“Wow, I didn’t imagine you’d be the boring canadian stereotype, personified,” Mat says, and then, without missing a beat, he adds “I’ll walk you to your room, then,” and puts some distance between them, finally letting Jordan’s heart rate go down from tachicardia territory.

Jordan opens his mouth to protest, barely getting out a syllable before Mat speaks again, “Come _on_ , It’s actually pretty close to the one I’m in,” And, there’s actually no disputing Mat’s logic there, so Jordan says one quick prayer to whoever might be listening, and lets the rookie guide the way out of the bar.

Here’s a small problem: Mat makes great conversation with anyone. It’s not something Jordan remembers being able to do with the older guys, when he was a rookie himself. Here’s a bigger one: he makes great conversation _with_ Jordan, about things that they’ve talked about on plane rides, chirps him about his country loving self, makes Jordan laugh in a way few people can. There’s something charming about his ruthless jabs, about the way he _says_ things, that makes Jordan feel right at home, once he pushes all the guilt and internal conflicts aside.

The walk passes in a breeze, and before he can realize, they are standing in front of his door, with Mat honest to God _giggling_.

“Well, this is me,” Jordan says, gesturing to his door with an exaggerated flourish. “See you early tomorrow? Or, I guess, later tonight,” Jordan moves to swipe his keycard, and open the door, feels like doing a little celebration dance because, _take_ that _Mat Barzal, I can resist your surprisingly charming face and conversation._

But before he has any time to think, or open the door and lock himself in, Mathew _fucking_ Barzal is pressed against his back, voice sufficiently raspy as he asks, "Turn around, please," and Jordan is _weak_ , his legs move on their own to Mat’s request.

And. Wow.

If he thought that how close they were at the bar drove his heart rate into tachycardia territory, then with how close and how intently Mat is staring at his face, his lips, everywhere, then Jordan should probably be entering cardiac arrest any second.

He’s about to do something, _anything_ , to try and pull back from whatever trance Mat has him in, and humors the idea of him being some sort of warlock. It’s not that he is actually restraining Jordan, he’s just... Right there. With an arm tentatively wrapped around Jordan’s waist, his left hand touching Jordan’s cheek.

“ _Mat_ ,” Jordan breathes out, and it’s a plea for him to stop, but also a plea to keep going, _please_ , to make Jordan forget about the night, forget about his worries.

“ _Jordan,_ ” Mat replies, his lips a breath away from Jordan’s own, and then he’s right there, leaning in and kissing the air out of Jordan’s lungs, his incredibly soft, plush lips all over Jordan’s like they were meant to be there forever.

And Jordan—Jordan’s just human. He can’t help but to run his hands through Mat’s hair—it’s actually just as soft as Jordan imagined, which is incredibly unfair—and can’t help but press closer, to forget, just for a moment, where they are, _who_ they are.

It takes what feels like an eternity for them to come up for air, and far too long for Jordan to regain any other train of thought besides _holy_ shit, _the kid has a mouth on him,_ and _wow, how did I even end up against the_ wall.

“Come on Barzy, we can’t—” Jordan starts, tilting his head backwards just enough to face Mat. Which, _bad fucking idea_ , because Mat is staring right down at him with a full on _smirk_ on his lips and bright eyes, looking all kinds of attractive and debauched, his hair all over the place ( _because of Jordan_ , fuck), and—Wow, okay. Jordan kind of wants to get Mat into his bed now and wipe that smug look off his face. Like, right this very second.

 _Terrible_ fucking move.

Jordan swallows, once, and tries to get his thoughts together, present Mat with the list of reasons he has for _not_ sleeping with him. Except—

Mat leans down, face mere inches away from Jordan’s, whispers, “Can I come in?” Somehow managing to sound smug but also look eager and curious all at once; a moment after, Mat fits his leg right between Jordan’s own, adding just enough pressure against Jordan’s crotch in a well practiced movement. It makes Jordan’s breath hitch, his head thump against the wall, and Jordan feels himself melt against it, against Mat, thinks _this can be just a one night sort of thing_.

(Like that one time—)

He brings Mat down for one bruising kiss, feels Mat against his lips, pushes everything but this moment to the back of his mind and lets himself _feel_.

 

* * *

 

Jordan realizes two things after that night in Tampa:

The first is that Mathew Barzal is a force to be reckoned with, what with the way he whirled into Jordan’s life, flipping everything upside down, uncaring for whatever mess he left behind.

The second is that Jordan is not as strong willed as he once thought he was.

“This is the last time this happens,” Jordan had panted, once, well on his way to naked and flustered, his lips within an inch of Mat’s.

Mat laughed, a quick short chuckle, his hands roughly yanking down Jordan’s pants, before leaning in for a bruising kiss. “Sure,” he had replied, voice dripping with amusement, and then there was no more time for Jordan to reply, not with Mat looking absolutely holy on his knees.

And that had been the end of it.

Jordan stops trying to put an end date on this, whatever it is that they have. Mat sure as hell seems determined to carve his way into Jordan’s life, to push and claw his way into the crevices of Jordan’s apartment, into every little corner of Jordan’s mind.

Jordan is definitely one hundred percent in control of the situation.

Although, Jordan has no excuse for the shiny new blue toothbrush that now sits alongside his own. Nor the clothing scattered around his room, or the shoes right by the entrance of his apartment, that are clearly not his own.

He’s _got_ this under control.

Mathew Barzal is _not_ succeeding at whatever game he’s playing. He is _not_ the boss of Jordan, not even with that beautiful smile of his and that wicked personality, that particular brand of humor that meshes perfectly well with Jordan’s own, the sharp lines of his body, the soft _o_ shape his mouth makes when he’s fast asleep—

Oh. _Well_.

 

* * *

 

"So? Have you?" John asks him, quirking one perfect eyebrow, then gesturing with his head at the vague direction where Mat and Tito are attempting some sort of dart trick shots on their way to plastered city, population: two.

Jordan takes one long sip of the pint in his hands, finding it to taste twice as bitter as the first time, and grimaces. John is still staring at him, waiting, but surprisingly looking merely curious and not as judging as one would think.

"Have I _what_?" Jordan shoots back, eyes focused intently on lowering his glass down the table, on the condensation hitting the table and forming water droplets.

"Jordan," John starts, his voice sounding a little bit too close to chiding, and the fact that Jordan’s ears are going pink is solely because the bar they’re at is too warm. Absolutely not because he's embarrassed.

 _Whatever, it's not like Johnny has the power to get me thrown off the team_ , he thinks, and leans back against the booth they’re in, as the rest of the guys mill around. "Maybe?" And his voice comes out more unsure than it should. He makes a 'shucks, what can you do' arm shrug, aiming for casual, and adds, "Yeah, I definitely have."

Jordan reaches for that pint, takes a smaller sip now. He's probably going to need something stronger for this conversation.

John's eyes widen slightly right at the same time he asks "With both?" It takes Jordan approximately zero point three seconds to choke on his drink and start coughing, prompting John to laugh, sounding absolutely delighted.

"No! No, Johnny, what _even_?" Jordan clears his throat, takes another sip to quench the ache on his throat. "I am _not_ doing that!" And John now looks a particular type of amused that Jordan won't even try to unpack. "Just with Barzy, okay? Once, maybe twice," He continues, even if his unhelpful brain provides him with the fact that Mat's been sleeping in his apartment more often than not, lately. It's not John's business, he figures, and pushes that particular line of thought away from his mind.

John’s just laughing again now, shaking his head, and Jordan wants nothing more than to walk away from this conversation, from this table, and go back into his apartment and bang his head repeatedly against the wall for biting into John’s bait.

“On a scale from one to ten, how bad of an idea is this?” Jordan asks, all pretense of being casual about it left behind, hoping that, somehow, John will speak something that sounds reasonable enough to make him stop.

“I don’t think I can say much,” John starts, and Jordan is now definitely trying hard to not look as interested as he feels, reaching over for his glass once again, staring at John over the rim of it as he drinks. “I co-parent a dog with the rookie I fucked my first year as a captain,” he finishes, bluntly, and now Jordan can’t help but spit some of his beer out, quickly trying to clean himself up afterwards.

“Shit, _Strome_?” he inquires, once he’s composed himself enough.

“Got it right in one go,” John says, pulling one long sip from his own beer and _shit_ , now Jordan feels a little bit awful for things that weren’t even on him in the first place. Remembers how, as much as he’d angsted about being traded from the city he was supposed to bleed and die for, he wasn’t the only one affected by the whole shitshow.

Maybe he should get John like, a fruit basket. A nice little note with it, saying _sorry about the 2423 miles I accidentally put between you and your apparently committed partner, what the_ fuck.

Before Jordan has a chance to say anything ranging from _I’m sorry_ to _it’s kind of different fucking someone_ seven _years your junior_ , or maybe even heading up to the bar to order himself some kind of shot that he’s sure to regret in the morning, Mat himself shows up as if he’d been summoned, and tries to be subtle about the way he leans on the table, a hair too close to Jordan.

“ _Hey_ ,” Mat drawls out, staring straight down at Jordan, a huge Cheshire grin on his lips, and Jordan feels like hiding under the table or something equally as childish. Instead, he squares his shoulders, and attempts to look fucking _casual_ about the fact that he’s a little breathless when he calls out, “Hey, Barzy,” before taking one last big chug of his beer, pointedly ignoring John’s eyes, instead focusing on Mat’s shining ones.

“Where’s Tito?” John asks, and laughs a little at how disoriented Mat looks for a second, probably trying to figure out who’s speaking, or trying to remember where he left his partner in crime.

“Somewhere over there,” he replies, staring at straight at John, and gesturing wildly with one arm in the direction of the pool tables. He sways the slightest bit with the movement– definitely plastered enough to make both John and Jordan share a chuckle, not too plastered to forget what’s going on. “I’m bored and _tired_ ,” he adds, his eyes now boring onto Jordan’s once again, dark with a desire Jordan has grown too familiar with.

“And?” Jordan questions, willing his voice down a tone, entranced by Mat’s pensive face, the way he pushes his hair out of his face in one practiced movement, the way his lips curl up in a way that’s probably meant to be snarky but ends up just verging on silly.

Not that, you know, Jordan has catalogued every single way Mat has ever smiled at him. But, if he had, that’d be probably it.

(Oh, _God_.)

“I think _you_ should do something about it,” Mat points at Jordan with his right index finger, getting closer and closer with it until he’s bopping Jordan’s nose, making Jordan go cross eyed from tracking the movement of the finger, and he can’t help the light laughter that escapes his lips.

“You know what? I just might,” Jordan says, smiling gently, and feeling something burning inside of him with the way Mat is staring at him.

“Only once or twice, eh?” John asks, forcing Jordan’s eyes on him, crossing his arms and once again raising an eyebrow that’s definitely judging him a little bit now.

“I’m _working_ on it, Johnny,” Jordan all but squeaks back at him, before standing up and slipping an arm around Mat’s shoulders, trying to be casual and probably failing badly with the way he’s staring at Mat’s flushed cheeks, at Mat’s tongue darting out to lick his lips briefly. “And I’m taking _you_ back home, you lightweight.” He makes a mental note to definitely send that basket to John, so maybe the captain can pretend to not have noticed just how fond Jordan’s voice sounds right now.

“Okay!” Mat is quick to reply, nodding, with that particular smile he seems to save for Jordan, a smile with the same effect that apparently _everything_ Mat does.

Okay. He’s _definitely_   fucked.

 

* * *

 

Jordan wakes up with a groan as he feels something pointy jab into his left side not once, but twice. _It’s way too fucking early,_ he thinks once he manages to open his eyes, judging by the barely there sunlight that streams through the curtains.

There’s some more rustling, and Jordan finally realizes that those pointy things jabbing him were in fact Mat’s elbows, that he's pressed up against Jordan's back, sneaking his way closer in a way that resembles what Mat consciously does, which is being totally unsubtle and perhaps a little too trusting.

Jordan lifts Mat’s arm to the best of his ability, struggling for a couple of moments before he’s able to turn around and face Mat, and–

It’s _too_ early for this.

Mat’s brows are pushed together, probably because of the unsolicited movement, but his mouth is open in a small _o_ shape that should not be as appealing as it is, considering the half breaths-half snores coming out of it. The purpling bruises near his collarbones stand a strong contrast against his smooth pale skin, and his bare chest is more than enough to force Jordan’s eyes from sliding down any further, focusing instead on Mat’s face once again.

He wonders when he started noticing that Mat kicks the covers down every single time, and that he sleeps clad only in boxers and socks. He asks himself _when_ he started to notice the little things like how Mat likes his coffee, or what lame jokes make his eyes crinkle, or which food will bring a radiant smile filled with what’s probably memories from home.

Definitely too fucking early for this.

Mat is completely unaware of all of this, though, and his furrowed brows smooth out once Jordan reaches over, one tentative hand barely touching Mat’s cheeks, his nose, pushing the hair out of his forehead. He even _smiles_ , that one tiny and private smile that kind of makes Jordan feel like the air was knocked out of his lungs.

His index finger traces over Mat’s lower lip, a little bit fascinated with the fact that Mat tries to close his mouth now, but only manages to trap Jordan’s finger between his lip, once again making his eyebrows crease in confusion. His left arm raises from its place on Jordan’s hip to smack Jordan’s hand away, and he can’t help but laugh softly at the extremely pleased smile on Mat’s lips once he’s successful on his task.

And Jordan—he’s blindsided by how deeply he wants more mornings like this. Waking up at Mat’s side, maybe even earlier than him like right now, just to be able to spend some time with him, without the constant feeling that he’s being watched, that he’s under Mat’s ridiculously charming eyes and words that know exactly where and what to pull out of him to unsettle him, usually in the best way possible.

Jordan is probably led by something most likely terrible like his _heart_ , or these adult _emotions_ he has no time to deal with when he presses his lips in a quick peck against Mat’s lips. And well, if Mat’s eyes fluttering open because of the strange sensation, if him smiling coyly after a few seconds as the recognition of who did that settles in, if the way he reaches over to rub at his eyes in a manner that should _not_ be as cute as it is makes Jordan’s heartbeat race, well, he’s only human.

“Hm, good morning Ebs,” Mat’s voice is scratchy, and when he stretches he looks just like a cat. He does not even attempt to look at the hour on his phone—probably the best for Jordan, since it’s barely 6:30, and he can’t quite figure out an excuse as to why he was up and being fucking _weird_ —before he leans forward to press his lips against Jordan’s once, twice, three times.

“G’morning, Mat,” Jordan breathes out, his smile probably as ridiculously cheery as Mat’s (but not possibly quite as bright), and he barely has time to get the words out before Mat leans in, pressing a more insistent kiss to Jordan’s lips.

“ _Hey_ ,” Mat says once they pull back after what seems like both an eternity and not long enough, and Jordan is surprised by the way he doesn’t give one single fuck about how their breaths smell, by just how fast his heart is beating, by just how much he loves Mat, by the softness of Mat’s voice and the way his lips fit right on the crook of Jordan’s neck and by how much he _loves_ Mat and—

He _loves_ Mat?

Oh.

Oh _no_.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so. Feelings. Jordan Eberle most definitely has those. For Mathew Barzal.

This is like, top five most stressful situations he’s ever been in, and not because it’s an inherently _bad_ thing to be into Mat—he’s is pretty damn great, and Jordan has realized it’s actually really fucking easy to be in love with him (which makes it all so much _worse_ ) but he’s fucking _twenty_ and Jordan is _twenty fucking seven_ years old and everyone knows you shouldn’t get the workplace and emotions mixed up—

Which is something Jordan has been doing for _months_. Fuck.

There are many things Jordan could do, like stopping this whole _situation_ that has definitely gotten out of his control—more accurately, this situation he’s never been in control of—or, God forbid, actually talking to Mat like the somewhat responsible adult he can be sometimes.

He calls Taylor instead.

“Ebs, _dude_ , how are you?” Taylor’s voice sounds genuinely happy to hear from him, and Jordan immediately feels guilty for not calling as often as he should, but he also some of the weight off his shoulders lift off as he settles on the sofa.

He forgets, sometimes, just how much he misses having Taylor by his side. It’s been a long time since he moved on from _whatever_ that was that they had going on, but he’s always been Jordan’s best friend, and like, he needs to talk about this whole feelings for _Mathew Barzal_ with someone who is _not_ Johnny because it’s kind of his fault that his boyfriend is playing in fucking _Edmonton_ and that’s fucking awkward.

“I’m good dude, what about you?” Jordan fires back, and he can imagine Taylor smiling, can hear some rustling and what’s probably Taylor puttering around his room. He’s probably on speakerphone now.

“Taking rookies out for dinner,” Taylor replies, and they both laugh almost in unison. Some things just never change.

“You and your fucking rookies, man,” Jordan says, moving around until he’s laying down, staring at the white high ceiling. “You’re like, a snake charmer, but instead of snakes, you charm rookies or something,” And the way that Taylor laughs reaches over and washes over him like a tidal wave.

“You’re so fucking full of shit Ebs, what are you even on,” Taylor speaks after his laughter has subdued. “Besides, look who’s talking about that, don’t you have like, two rookies you’ve seem to have taken into?” Taylor speaks, and moves around some more, sounding like he’s getting dressed. “You know, I have the NHL app,” He finishes, and Jordan is biting the inside of his cheek now.

“Yeah about that—” Jordan starts, impulsively, and promptly shuts up. This was probably a terrible idea. Taylor makes a noise on the other side of the line, meant to be reassuring, and it’s not enough for Jordan to continue, but he’s doing it anyways, because he’s fucking _stupid_ and _reckless_. “I might have a little trouble with one of them?”

“Come again? You? What?” Taylor says, and there’s a loud thud noise, and Taylor cursing shoes under his breath.

“So, uh,” Jordan starts, scratching his nose. “You know about Mat Barzal, right?”

“Do I _know_ about him? I don’t live under a fucking rock, Ebs, of course” Taylor says, sounding like he’s judging Jordan for being dumb for even asking that question, which, _fair._ “Is he a little shit? Like, in a bad way. Not in the Connor Mcdavid weird way?”

“No, no, he’s, well, he’s _fine,_ ” _More than fine_. “I just, uh, might be sleeping with him and like, might have caught feelings, and now I don’t know what to do?” His voice is rushed but it’s finally _out_ and he feels weightless, even if panic threatens to start growing on his chest.

“ _Jordan,_ ” Taylor starts, and maybe he should hang up to avoid the awkward _you’re_ gay? _you look so normal_ questioning, and having to explain that no, he’s not _gay_ , he’s probably like, bisexual, but it’s not like he has actually sat down to _think_ about it. Instead, Taylor asks, “You _fucked_ your _rookie_?” and while it makes him kind of want to throw his phone to the corner of the living room or maybe against a wall so it can shatter into pieces, it’s not the question he was expecting, the one he was dreading the most, so he can breathe a little easier.

“Uh, yes?” Jordan says, and he’s ready to launch into a detailed theory of how Mat is probably like, some sort of warlock, or maybe someone whose sole purpose in life is to turn Jordan’s world upside down, but he’s interrupted by Taylor on the other side.

“ _How_?” and he sounds flabbergasted, but also like he’s _curious_ and absolutely not judging, which—Okay?

“Look, it just—happened, I don’t _know_ ,” Jordan replies, stumbling over his words, not finding a proper way to convey the _months_ of Mathew Barzal exposure and what those can do to a man. “And now I can’t make it stop and I’m in too fucking deep,” he continues, probably sounding hopeless and slightly pathetic, which is exactly what he feels.

“Yeah, that’s what _she_ said,” Taylor jokes, never one to pass up on one of these. Jordan’s little _hey!_ on the other side of the line makes him laugh now, which is frankly fucking rude. “ _Dude_ , oh my _God_ ,” and his voice sounds closer to the receiver now, which means he’s probably sitting down in his bed, holding his phone to his ear, and Jordan wishes they could have the same setup they had in Edmonton, with their reclining couches right next to each other, where he could just share one look with Taylor and say everything with that instead of having to make-do with electronics.

These things make you talk, you know, and Jordan is like—the worst at finding proper words.

“I know, okay, I _know_ ,” Jordan says, feeling a little bit miserable. He wonders if ordering a pizza for himself to commiserate while he watches Friends reruns after this phone call is over is way too out of his diet plan.

“You will not fucking believe this but—” Taylor starts, but gets interrupted by what sounds like the door opening and someone speaking, and Taylor says something about just needing one more minute while sounding incredibly fond, which, what the _fuck,_ and then the other person speaking seems to leave, not without making Taylor burst into a brief laughing fit.

“Look, I need to go now Ebs, but I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay?” Taylor says, and he sounds strangely sorry, like he wants to stay to talk to him for a long time, like he’s _missed_ Jordan just as much as Jordan has missed him.

“For sure, dude,” Jordan replies. “Sorry about being so shitty with catching up,” He adds, feeling guilty for the months he spent being only available via text.

“It’s okay dude, that’s just what happens,” Taylor answers, the _after you get traded_ not attached, but strongly implied. And then, after a beat “Love ya, bro,” a little rushed thing that would’ve made his heart flutter what feels like ages ago, but now just feels like coming back home.

“You too,” Jordan adds, and there’s a click and the line is dead, and then he’s alone again, laying down on his couch and listening to the dial tone, stuck on square one.

 

* * *

 

So. Jordan is avoiding Mat now. You know. To deal with the situation. Like the adult he is.

Not because he’s _scared_ of having feelings for someone seven years his junior who’s probably in this thinking only with his dick, sees him as this older more experienced dude who he can hang out with occasionally and get some.

 _It’s not like Mat needs an experienced—_ Jordan’s brain suggest, but he’s quick to shut that particular train of thought down.

Not that he has, you know, asked Mat about whatever it is they have going on for once, instead of just rolling with the punches. That would mean probably getting his heart broken for the third time, or something. The two first times don’t really count—it’s not like he and Taylor ever had something official going on, and the Edmonton Oilers are a _sports team_ , not capable of emotions—but the whole point is that Jordan doesn’t want to deal with this.

The problem is that he didn’t realize just how much time he actually spent with Mat and just how _hard_ it is to be away from him. Specially when he’s right there in the locker room, looking like he’s a little bit upset every single time Jordan says he can’t hang out, that he’s busy, that he’s too tired, that he has family over.

Specially because he misses being with Mat. But, only a little. Misses waking up on his arms, messing up with his now shorter hair and hear him laugh and pretend to be annoyed as he adjusts his hair, their attempts at cooking; misses pressing his lips right on that spot on Mat’s neck that drives him crazy—

Okay. So he misses Mat a whole fucking lot. Big fucking deal.

It’s his own fault for getting attached on the first place. It’s his own fault for letting Mat into his house, his bedroom, his life.

Now all he does is hang out in his apartment and feel bored out of his mind, and call Taylor to complain about how bored he is, trying to heckle him into saying whatever the fuck he wanted to before their phone call got cut short while Taylor says he’s a fucking idiot, and that he should _talk_ or something.

But he’s not moping. Not at all.

That’s just not Jordan’s thing.

Jordan Eberle and the concept of moping are like… well, like two parallel lines. Polar opposites. Oil and water.

He’s, like, the pro at getting over things quickly.

 

* * *

 

He’s also, _still_ , a filthy fucking liar.

 

* * *

 

“ _Hey_ , Jordan, buddy,” Tito slides up to Jordan after practice two weeks after Jordan started to distance himself from Mat, because _of course_. “You have a moment?” He continues, and Jordan stares down at his half dressed state, realizes he’s being _ambushed_ and curses internally.

“Sure, what’s up?” Jordan replies, voice slightly squeaky as he tries to be conspicuous about looking around the locker room, breathing a little bit easier once he sees Mat nowhere in sight.

“Just wanted to ask you for some pointers,” Tito starts, and Jordan tilts his head to the side as he puts his pair of socks on, letting him continue talking.

“Actually, no, I’m going straight to the point.” He looks nervous and possibly constipated. Like someone had stepped on his toes with high heels. “And Mat is going to kill me for this, but please get your shit together and fix whatever the fuck is going on?”

“ _Nothing_ is going on, Tito, haha, what are you even saying man?” And, fuck, now _Jordan_ is nervous.

“You two are _not_ subtle,” Tito starts. “Well, at least Mat isn’t. Anyways. He’s been listening to one too many sad romance ballads on his stupid surround sound system and every single time I visit him _I_ get upset.”

“Tito, look—” Jordan starts, but he’s interrupted by Tito speaking over him.

“Look, I’m not the one that needs to hear this.” He says. “I don’t know what happened because he won’t tell me but can you _please_ solve this,” Tito pleads now, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, now definitely whispering, he adds, “I have sat through _two_ Ben and Jerry’s Truffle Kerfuffle containers, Jordan. _Two!_ ” His eyes are blown wide now, and he looks a little bit deranged, like he’s seen or heard too much, which, knowing Mat, might be the case.

“I don't even _like_ that flavor, man,” Tito finishes, his hands on Jordan’s shoulders.

The thing is that Jordan had thought that Mat looked bummed out, but he only thought it was probably just him missing getting laid regularly. But this sounds a whole lot like what Jordan is doing, which is, okay—fucking moping.

Jordan Eberle is _fucking_ moping.

Tito is still staring at him, hands still on Jordan’s shoulders. Jordan thinks of his conversation with Johnny at the bar, his phone call with Hallsy, his plethora of late night and early morning conversations with Mat, and feels like kicking himself one too many times. So he’s not just stupid, but also projecting the worst of his fears and insecurities into Mat.

Great

“Look—I'll do something about it,” Jordan says, shrugging Tito’s hands from his shoulders. “Now please stop staring at me like that?” He asks, because it’s kind of freaking him out, and it feels like Tito is one wrong word away from knocking a tooth out, or something.

It's like a switch flips off on Tito, and Jordan truly wonders if that's how fierce he was about Hallsy. Maybe not to his own teammates. “Heh, sorry, man,” Tito says, and in a moment the tight line of his lops turns into a sheepish grin on his lips as he scratches the back of his neck. “He’s just… my friend, you know?”

 _He knows._ “I get it, man,” Jordan replies, and finishes dressing up, trying hard to not make it seem like he’s in a rush to just get out of the room. “I really do.”

 

* * *

 

So, Tampa. Jordan should probably send some token of gratitude for the city, or something.

They win two home games in a row after what feels like forever, and manage to get a win against Tampa with a single goal in overtime, almost on the brink of losing hold of the game one too many times, but they _don’t_ , and it’s _great_ , and Jordan should not be walking over Mat to ask him if he’s free for dinner, a smile that looks like more of a wince on his lips, but he’s doing it.

Jordan Eberle is not known for making particularly good choices.

But Mat, despite looking startled, and maybe a little big resigned, agrees to join him and carpool there—

Maybe Mathew Barzal is also not the best at making choices.

That’s a relief.

They go to this hole in the wall Mexican food place that Mat found once, that has been sort of _their_ spot now that Jordan thinks about it, and his heart squeezes while simultaneously something on his chest settles once they sit in their usual table, order from the same waitress that has always been on the night shift ever since they started coming to eat here.

They make small talk, and there’s something fragile in the air, but Mat is just _Mat_ , telling Jordan a story about how Tito once spent three hours in the bathroom after having eaten Mexican food and drunk one too many beer bottles, and how he cried for Mat to sit with him in the bathroom of this mutual friend they had and he’s laughing so hard he’s almost in tears and _God_ , Jordan loves him so much his heart could possibly burst because of it.

It doesn’t take long for the food to come, and they practically inhale it—it was a gruelling game, the type that leaves you aching everywhere and hungry enough that you feel like eating an entire pizza on your own—so there’s not much talking once the plates are set down.

There’s so much Jordan wants to say, things like _I wore one of your shirts to sleep the other day,_ or _I didn’t realize I’d feel so lonely without you_ , and _I love you, I’m so sorry it took me so long to catch on._

He clears his throat. Settles for catching Mat’s eyes over his one last bite on a fish taco, and saying “I’m sorry,” watches as Mat chokes on his food and drinks a long gulp out of his water glass, feels like hiding under the table or running away to Alaska once Mat stares at him with his eyes wide open. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you,” Jordan adds, once Mat has stopped coughing.

“It’s cool man,” Mat replies, shrugging, his brows furrowed. “I just misunderstood it all for something more,” he continues, looking all kinds of awkward, like he’s been waiting for this conversation for days, like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No! No,” Jordan’s voice softens after his initial exclamation, bringing it down to a level where Mat and Mat only can hear. “Look I was just—scared—I didn’t think—” he’s stumbling over his words now, feeling like a fool, and Mat is still frowning, but he looks more confused than resigned now which is better, in a way.

He takes a deep breath, looks away to regroup. “I was scared, Mat. I didn’t think you’d want to—I thought getting away would be for the best,” Jordan starts, fumbling with a napkin, folding and refolding it. “A quick update on that? Turns out I _hated_ it,” he finishes, his eyes finding Mat’s once again. There’s so many ways Mat could react here, and Jordan just hopes he doesn’t end up getting chewed out as much as he probably deserves it.

“I can’t _believe_ you’d want to have this conversation here,” Mat says instead, but he’s also the corner of his lips is curving slightly upwards, and Jordan’s heart is hammering against his ribcage now, wildly.

“I didn’t know what else to— You want to go home?” Jordan says, voice hopeful. The smile on his lips is wide, and it mirrors Mat’s. “We have a lot to talk about, I think,” He adds, and his breath catches in his throat as he waits for Mat to reply.

“Of course,” Mat tells him, eyes shining, and Jordan can hear his own heartbeat. “But you’re paying,” he quirks an eyebrow, daring Jordan to say otherwise, and Jordan can only laugh, relieved, and signal for the waiter to come with the tab.

 

* * *

 

There’s something about the way Mathew Barzal stares at him that makes Jordan’s spine feel like it’s catching on fire.

There’s something about the way Mathew Barzal smiles at him when he catches Jordan staring that makes Jordan's heart go faster.

**Author's Note:**

> *Yes I am i implying that the Isles win against the Pens and Bolts. Sue me for whisful thinking?


End file.
